


Diaphanous

by redharedontcare



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, F/M, Gen, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 14:53:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15197168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redharedontcare/pseuds/redharedontcare
Summary: "He knows he should just leave it alone, or even better, move it into the compost pile, set it aflame and lay this ghost finally to rest. But he can’t. In person, there was a magnetic pull about Leta, like a moth to an open flame, which lingers even on paper. Her photo reaches out to him, vulnerable and sweet, and full of unfulfilled promises."The beginning of a bunch of (somewhat) related drabbles I have of a running thread between Leta, Newt, and Theseus and their backstory.





	Diaphanous

**Diaphanous**

...

The day before Newt is set to leave from England dawns grey and drizzly. The sky droops above head, bloated with angry clouds. It is at no loss to spend it indoors packing and cleaning.

At the foot of his bed lies his suitcase—an ancient leather box. He begins with packing only the necessities. His passport, his tickets, his journal and quills, then clothing and his scarf, knitted in gold and grey, Hufflepuff colors. Then he packs those bits of home, Theseus’ letters and postcards that he liked to send from faraway lands—all tucked next to the black velvet bowtie Theseus gifted him for his sixteenth birthday. The biscuit his mum packages him, with bits of twine, nestled next to his linen shirts, freshly laundered.

After that is settled, he begins clearing out the rest of his flat, in particular, his desk. It’s littered with all sorts of random knick knacks and trinkets—scraps of yellowed parchment, singed feather quills, dragon scales, crushed eggs shells. And books, books and scrolls and old _Daily Prophets_ that are stacked high and teeter precariously on the edge of the desk.

With great care, he takes a stack by the arm—no magic. It might be easier to lift with the help of a wand, but the sheets of newspaper and parchment require more nuanced handling, which he knows he has yet to master. His handling of magic is brusque—capable but clumsy.

Perhaps he should have tried with his wand anyways, because just as he grabs a stack to begin sorting what to recycle and what to donate, his grip slips and all of it—books, newspapers, and journals spill onto the ground like a flurry of paper snowfall.

He moves to pick up what he has dropped when something catches his eye and arrests him mid-step.

From the mess of papers, a pair of eyes, peer out, two dark reflective pools which Newt always believed belonged more to an oil painting than to real life, the same ones that still occasionally drift out to him in dreams and haunt him in his sleep.

In this instance, they’re printed on a copy of _The Daily Prophet_ , front page. He reaches for it and pulls it out—pulls _her_ out.

He knows he should just leave it alone, or even better, move it into the compost pile, set it aflame and lay this ghost finally to rest. But he can’t. In person, there was a magnetic pull about Leta, like a moth to an open flame, which lingers even on paper. Her photo reaches out to him, vulnerable and sweet, and full of unfulfilled promises.

So he turns _The Daily Prophet_ over and folds it back to the page with Leta’s photo. He clips it carefully away, removing her from the black and white text. Then, he tucks it away— _her_ away—in his suitcase between the folds of his Hufflepuff scarf.

 _Honestly_ , begs his heart, why does he continue do this to himself?

Because he made a promise once. And this is the best he can do.

And because he imagines Leta would appreciate the sentiment if she knew, find it tongue-in-cheek funny in her strange twisted way.

The Leta of before, at least.

The Leta of after, the Leta of now—he knows nothing of what she would think.

**Author's Note:**

> Leta Lestrange is my muse. I think I love her because there is little to no information on her, which gives me room to run different ideas on who she is!
> 
> I have a million drafts of bits and pieces of this running thread I have between her, Theseus, and Newt...I'm slowly working on editing them and publishing on here.
> 
> If there's any ideas or emotions anybody would like for me to explore, please comment let me know ~


End file.
